


Lost and Found

by xbedhead



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Gen, post Wolverine: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Logic was telling him that this was all wrong – that taking a shower in a stranger’s apartment when he woke up without being able to remember his name was slightly dangerous.  But it felt right, just like diving into a train car headed for New Orleans felt right, too.  He didn’t want to question it because his gut told him that questioning it would lead to more questions and it was a vicious cycle and it made his eyes ache to think about it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> The only reason I wrote this was to get Logan his jacket back. They made such a damn deal about him actually _getting_ the jacket in the movie that I thought it was a shame that he left it in Remy's plane. Not beta'd and feedback is appreciated, but not necessary.

~*~

The city was overwhelming him. The stench of the sewers, the sirens blaring, the street grime prickling at his skin as the wind kicked up.

Not to mention the frightened looks he was getting from every person on the sidewalk.

He glanced down, taking in the dirty, mangled mess of his tank top and noticed the blood-rimmed holes rifled throughout. He frowned. It looked like he’d been hurt, but…doing what? It obviously had something to do with the chaos he’d run from on the island, but he couldn’t remember a blessed thing.

He needed to think. He was starting to get nervous – a feeling that was foreign to him, even in the blank slate of his mind.

***

“Another beer.”

For the eighth time the bartender refilled the glass obediently, waiting until his patron had placed two of his last three dollars onto the scratched cherry surface. He finished the drink in less than a minute and stood, walking a straight line to the broom closet of a bathroom.

He rapped his knuckles on the locked door and waited impatiently for the room to clear out. He blew out harshly through his nostrils. Whatever was going on in there, it stunk.

“Hurry up,” he growled through the flimsy plywood and it seemed to be enough to spur along the last occupant.

The wiry man slipped out quickly, buttoning his fly and fumbling with his belt as he sidestepped the imposing figure in the doorway.

He stepped into the bathroom and flipped the hook in place to lock himself in. The toilet had seen better days, but he wouldn’t be sitting any time soon. After he finished, he zipped up and moved to wash his hands, catching sight of himself in the metal-plated mirror above the sink.

The face in the mirror was that of a stranger and it made him afraid. What the hell had happened to him? 

He washed his hands quickly, rubbing the dirty bar of soap over his even dirtier hands with more force than necessary, but it didn’t matter. His brows were furrowed and a weight was around his forehead, keeping his head down, eyes focused on the task instead of drifting back up to the mirror.

The dirt-tinged bubbles rolling easily down the drain suddenly blurred and the chips of metal hanging from his neck came into sharp focus. He held them up to his face with a wet hand.

Logan.

“Logan.”

It sounded foreign, even on his own lips. Were they really his? It’s what the guy on the island had called him, just before they split up.

He turned the piece over, frowning even deeper as he read the second name. Wolverine. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he in the Army? What kind of dogtags were these?

None of it made any sense. There was a black hole where everything in his life should have been. His brain felt light, containing nothing but the memory of waking up to dust and smoke and fire all around him. 

There was no one. No one who could tell him why.

Except maybe one person.

***

“You said that you knew me. How?”

Remy Lebeau turned, slowly, already pinning the voice to who it belonged to. He wasn’t in the mood to get roughed up and he pasted a charming smile on his face.

“That’s right – I do.” He gestured to the table along the wall of the near-empty bar. “Have a seat?”

Logan checked the swinging doors behind him and sniffed the air once. Whatever he’d picked up seemed to satisfy him and he ambled over to the table.

After they both were seated, Remy motioned to the bartender for a pitcher of beer and they waited, silent, for the drinks to arrive. Remy poured and Logan accepted the glass with a nod of thanks, taking a long pull before setting the stein down with purpose.

“How?” he repeated.

“ _You_ came to _me_ , uh…before. Before…this happened to you. So you really can’t remember me?” he asked, tacking the last part on quickly. He leaned back in his chair, watching Logan for any signs of deception, but found none. Only a cautious level of suspicion and an expected dose of frustration.

Remy sighed, twirling his half-full mug around on its bottom edge and watching the water stains form on the table top. “I don’t know how you found me. You just…showed up, about a week ago. Do you remember that?”

Logan shook his head, frown still present, drink halfway to his mouth.

“Well, I was in the middle of a card game – _which_ I was winnin’, by the way – and you said you had some business to take care of with me.”

“What kind of business?”

Remy took a moment to look around the open room, taking in a few faces that were staring his way. He smiled pleasantly and lifted his drink, keeping his eyes dancing throughout the room as he spoke. “Business that, maybe, you and I don’t really need to be discussin’ out in the open.”

He finished off his beer with a smack of his lips. “Say, how’d you know where to find me anyway?”

Remy couldn’t help but notice that Logan looked slightly troubled at the question and waited several long moments before continuing. “Last time I saw you, you were in the middle of Pennsylvania – that’s a long hike from there ta here.”

“Four days by train,” Logan answered testily.

Remy arched an eyebrow, taking in the appearance of his haggard drinking mate. “Yeah. Smells like four days, too.” He pushed himself up from his seat and pulled a few bills from his wallet, waving to the barmaid that he was leaving them on the table. “C’mon. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

***

Logic was telling him that this was all wrong – that taking a shower in a stranger’s apartment when he woke up without being able to remember his name was slightly dangerous. But it felt right, just like diving into a train car headed for New Orleans felt right, too. He didn’t want to question it because his gut told him that questioning it would lead to more questions and it was a vicious cycle and it made his eyes ache to think about it.

He slung the ratty towel around his hips and poked his head out the bathroom door. The apartment looked empty.

“Hello?” he called, but no one answered.

Frowning, he stepped further into the living room and took a moment to examine it. Furniture was sparse – a couch, a coffee table, an empty bookshelf and a mid-sized recliner decorated the room. There were no pictures on the wall, no rugs on the wooden floor and no sources of light besides the windows and the single bulb in the ceiling.

The bedroom was much the same – a bed, a nightstand and a dresser with a comb on top. He closed the door and meandered into the kitchen where he found precisely one set of silverware, one plate, one bowl and one cup. There was a pot and a frying pan on the double-burner stove top.

He looked up as the doorknob turned, fists automatically clenching as he prepared for what might come through the door. As he turned to face the door head on, he didn’t stop to wonder why that was his first reaction to…well, just about everything.

Remy smiled, balancing several greasy bags and white cartons in his arms as he kicked the door closed behind him. “I ordered Chinese,” he drawled. He set the six-pack of beer and takeout bags on the coffee table and stepped back. “Hope ya like Kung Pow Chicken.”

Logan grunted noncommittally – _did_ he like Kung Pow Chicken? – and meandered over to the couch, adjusting his towel before he sat. The smell of food had made his stomach growl loud enough for the both of them to hear and he wasted no time before unwrapping his plastic fork and spoon and tearing into the boxes.

Remy smiled from the kitchen doorway, taking in the way Logan was ravenously dipping into the food. He doubled back, grabbing a few rags to clean up with.

“Here,” he said, tossing the rags in Logan’s direction before disappearing into his bedroom. He came back a few minutes later, t-shirt and sweatpants in hand. “These should fit ya. If not, we’re in trouble,” he grinned. “You’re a little bigger than me.”

“Thanks,” Logan mumbled around a mouthful of cashews and baby corn.

Remy took a seat in the recliner and twisted the top from his bottle of beer as he lifted the leg rest up and leaned back. He continued to watch Logan eat with the barest hint of a smile. “I woulda gotten more if I knew you was this hungry. What’sa matter? You not eat since the last time I saw ya?”

Logan swallowed hard around a crispy piece of chicken and consciously made himself slow down. “Didn’t have any money.”

“Fair enough,” Remy shrugged, taking another pull off of his bottle. “ _Well,_ I s’pose we need to figure out how to fix that, then. You any good at cards?”

“I dunno.”

“Well…you’re plenty good at fightin’, I know that.” Remy couldn’t keep the smile from his lips as he remembered their…altercation in the alley the first night they’d met. He blew a laugh out his nose and took another drink. “I got a friend I could set you up with, get a coupla matches this weekend. It’s good money – can be even better if I lay money down and you can guarantee a win.”

Logan, again, had no idea why, but the sound of fighting for money appealed to him. And didn’t worry him in the slightest. He decided to roll with it. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Good.”

Remy sat back once more, allowing several more moments of silence to elapse before he set his beer on the table and cleared his throat. “So I guess you wanna know the story, huh?”

Logan nodded and started to say something, but Remy hushed him. “Hold on. I’ll tell ya what I know, you eat and listen, all right?”

Another nod and more chewing.

“You showed up at my table about a week ago, askin’ about some guys named Victor and Stryker. I don’t know who pointed ya to me, but you were there and…well, things got testy at first, but after we… _talked_ , we came to a mutual understanding.”

Logan forced his mouthful down quickly and quirked an eyebrow. “Which was?”

“That we both wanted Stryker and Victor dead.”

“Why? And who are Stryker and Victor?”

“The devil and his hairy, stink-breathed minion,” Remy mumbled heatedly. 

He tilted his head thoughtfully and Logan caught him glancing at his hands. He titled his chin in that direction. “Logan, you know what you got under there?”

Logan frowned. “Under where?”

“In your hands.”

Logan set the carton down on the table and slowly pulled his hands back, his eyes glued to the backs of them. He flexed his fingers once, twice, and turned them over. His arms were itching. He twisted his wrists just slightly and it was a good thing he’d put the food down because it may well have been skewered by the metal blades that sprang from between his knuckles.

Logan shot to his feet, his jaws dropping in horror as he looked from the metal to Remy, then back to the metal. “Jesus – what-what the hell is wrong with me?” he demanded, looking to Remy once again for answers.

Remy had leaned over in the recliner, taking in the shiny metal with a sense of wonder. He shrugged. “You’re a mutant, that’s what’s wrong.”

“A _mutant_?”

“Yeah. Me, too. Bum rap, huh?” Remy let out a low whistle as he leaned back from his inspection. He shook his head. “You could do some damage with those, I’m tellin’ ya. Better not let them out in the fight.”

Logan wriggled his wrists once more and just like that, the blades disappeared, right back from where they came. The torn flesh around the holes knitted itself quickly and within five seconds it was like nothing had ever happened. He flexed his hands again, producing the same effect, then pulled the claws back in with a grimace. 

He turned halfway, examining the sofa where he was about to sit again before gingerly tightening his towel. He sat with an exhale, hands dangling between his knees, careful not to touch anything.

“Look, I don’t know much,” Remy continued, sensing it was best to keep things moving rather than letting Logan linger on this recent revelation. “All I know is whatcha told me in the plane on the way to Three-Mile – and you’re not the most talkative fella. Somebody you cared about wound up dead and that Victor, and probably Stryker, had somethin’ ta do with it.”

“What’s the island?” Logan asked, willing his voice not to shake and his eyes away from his hands.

“Where Stryker did his work – his research and experiments. He use’ta capture mutants and run all kindsa tests on ‘em there. Victor is his muscle. That’s where I ran into ‘em.” Remy’s eyes darkened as he took another pull from his beer. “That’s why I got outta there first chance I could.” 

“So what happened at the island?”

Remy shrugged and set his empty bottle on the floor beside the chair. “I have no idea, Logan. You told me just to drop you off, but I started ta get kinda itchy. Felt like somethin’ bad was gonna happen. So, I landed the plane and took off toward that reactor once I saw those laser beams comin’ from the top.”

“ _Laser_ beams?” Logan barely kept himself from shaking his head. This was all too much too soon. None of it was making any sense.

“Yeah. I guess that’s what you’d call ‘em. Red. Fiery. Shootin’ outta some fella’s eyes. He took the whole reactor down. I ran into you again and you sent me after the kids – more mutants that Stryker was holding to do the testing on,” Remy added before Logan could cut in with the question. “I found ‘em, but they were already running off with some guy who flew in on a helicopter. Next time I saw you, you were just waking up and you had no idea who I was.”

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it. Sorry, Logan,” Remy shrugged, adding with a smile, “but all total? I’ve only really known you about five hours.”

Logan regarded him suspiciously, but couldn’t keep the curiosity from his voice. “Why’re you doing this then?”

“You seemed like the kinda guy who had trouble follow him…and I’m always lookin’ for trouble,” he grinned.

Logan looked at his hands once more, taking in the relatively smooth palms with a leery sense of wonder. Now that he had his story – or as much of it as he was going to get at the moment – what was he supposed to do? There had to be more, there had to be _someone_ who could make sense of this.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Remy started as he rose from the recliner, “but if you just need a place to crash for a while, the couch is always there.”

“Thanks,” Logan mumbled, eyeing the cartons of food, but making no move to eat more. He’d lost his appetite. “Gonna go change,” he sighed, wadding up the clothing and slipping into the bathroom.

He emerged a few minutes later, just as Remy was picking up the takeout boxes. “A little snug, but it’ll do for now.”

“Hung the towel on the door.”

“S’fine.”

As Remy sauntered into the kitchen, he spoke over his shoulder, “Look, all you got is that pair of jeans I managed to salvage. Whaddya say we go get you some things down at the store? I sure as hell won’t share my toothbrush with ya.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“I know that. Consider it an up-front – for that cash you’re gonna win me this weekend.”

“Fine.”

“Well then let’s get the hell outta here. Oh, hey – before I forget.” Remy disappeared into his bedroom and Logan could hear him shifting around something in his closet. “This is yours,” he supplied, tossing a wad of black leather in Logan’s direction.

Logan caught it, unfolding it and holding it up before his eyes. It was a leather jacket.

“Ya left it in my plane. Was gonna keep it, but seein’ how you’re here, I figured I’d do the gentlemanly thing and return it.”

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Logan smirked as he slipped into the jacket, taking note of the way it fell just right across his shoulders. There was something strangely familiar about the coat, but as soon as he noticed it was there, the feeling was gone. 

He felt around the pockets, but they were all empty – except for one. He pulled out a cigar that was a little worse for the wear, but still smokeable, and popped it into his mouth. “Thanks,” he said around the stogie. “For all this.”

Remy smiled, one corner of his mouth upturning. “You win me some money this weekend and we’ll call it square – how’s that?”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“Then that’s what it is.” Remy held the door open and motioned to Logan with a sweep of his hand. “After you.”

“This more of your ‘gentleman’ coming out?” Logan sniped half-heartedly before stepping into the hallway.

Remy grinned and latched the door shut behind him. “No. _This_ , my friend, is a guarantee that you’ll be the first thing seen by someone I may owe.”


End file.
